“It’s the susto you got from seeing the village burn,” Nana Hortencia said. “I will give you a limpia later today to cure you of your fright.” “Why isn’t he back yet, Nana?” She’d ridden out to the road each day, scanning the prairie for any signs of riders, as she awaited his return. The day before, the wounded guerrilla had been well enough to leave and rejoin Cortina’s band, and she’d implored him to ask Joaquín to send her word of his whereabouts. For now, though, she had nothing to reassure her he was safe. The roosters announced the break of dawn. She could see through the window the sky tinged crimson with the morning’s first glow. Nana Hortencia grabbed a brush and set to work on braiding Ximena’s black waist - length tresses. Once again, Ximena closed her e yes, haunted by her earlier visions. The remnants of her dream clung to her mind like sandburs — her husband in her arms, blood blossoming on his chest. Screams, the deafening sounds of a cannon. And she herself standing in the middle of a battlefield in a c loud of burnt gunpowder. Death everywhere. When she was done getting dressed, Ximena followed her grandmother to the stables, and together they rode out to forage for medicinal plants to r eplenish their supplies — prickly poppy, camphorweed, wild lettuce, purple sage, toloache. With walking sticks in hand, they scouted the terrain, ke eping a vigilant eye out for rattlesnakes coiled in the grasses. Drops of dew still clung to the plants, glistening under the blessed light of the sun, and the golden clusters of the agarita and guajillo perfumed the morn ing air. Ximena loved the time she spent with her grandmother, learning about curanderismo and the healing power of plants. She liked the stories her grandmother told of the old ways, of her ancestral tribe, the Pajalat, who had been displaced from their homeland w hen the Spanish
arrived, stories of Nana’s childhood in the mission along the Río San Antonio, of her forced marriage to a Spanish soldier when she and her family had tried to run away from the missionaries. But Nana Hortencia didn’t linger on the sadness of those moments . Instead, she taught Ximena to focus on the wonders and magic all around her. How to listen. There were times when Ximena’s mother accused her of loving her grandmother more than her. Ximena couldn’t explain to her mother that Nana’s ways were simpler, her love unconditional. Ximena’s mother, a light - skinned mestiza born in San Antonio de Béxar, h ad expectations of what kind of woman Ximena should grow up to be — a Tejana belle with many suitors falling at her feet, who would go on to marry into a well - to - do family — expectations she’d never lived up to. Unlike her two older brothers who, with their fa ir skin and copper hair, took after her mother, Ximena’s features were more Indian than Spanish. She took after Nana Hortencia, including her need for stillness and quietude, her reverence for the earth and open skies, for the blessing of the Spirit, and f or that, her mother resented her until the day she died. Ximena was twelve when the cholera epidemic sw ept through the regions in 1833. Her mother and brothers perished, but Nana Hortencia managed to save Ximena and her father from death’s clutches. Would she be able to do the same when the time came to save Joa quín? What if her grandmother’s teas, salves, and poultices weren’t enough this time? How could she protect him from what was to come? “Mijita, you know he won’t listen,” Nana Hortencia said as if reading her thoughts. She was carefully harvesting the seed pods of a white chicalote and placing them in a pouch. “Your dreams alarm him, but he will not give heed to them.” Ximena knew her grandmother was right. Joaquín wouldn’t change his mind. He found her dreams disturbing, frightening even, and preferred to not discuss them with her. She’d had these strange dreams ever since she almost died from cholera, visions of things to come, though they didn’t always come to pass. Her grandmother said the dreams that helped her foresee were part of her healing gift. But to Ximena, sometimes they felt more like a curse. The year before, she had dreamed that the baby she carried in her womb wouldn’t survive the birth. When she told Joaquín of her vision, he brushed aside her fears in his excitement, hoping it would be a boy. A boy it was, but his weak heart had stopped bea ting and his life had set with the sun that same day. After that, Joaquín forbade her to speak of her dreams. It was as if he blamed them. Ximena blamed herself. No matter how many times her grandmother, who’d lost children herself, said that it was the Creator who had called her baby’s spirit to return to Him, she couldn’t let go of the feeling that she had failed in her sacred duty as a mother to ke ep her child safe. And what good were those visions from God if there was nothing she could do to stop what she had been shown? If all they did was to prolong her pain?
“I can’t lose Joaquín, Nana. If anything happens to him — ” “Your husband knows the risks. And he is willing to make sacrifices to do what must be done to protect his home. Would you have him do otherwise?” She sighed. “I would rather he stay with me and be a coward than a dead hero. My father once played the hero, remember?” Ximena was living with her family in San Antonio de Béxar, which was part of Mexico back then, when thousands of norteamericanos began pouring into the province after the Mexican government gave St ephen Austin permission to settle a colony. First farmers a nd cotton planters came to exploit the land with slave labor, even after Mexico abolished slavery, and then restless adventurers, squatters, and armed desperados swarmed into the region looking for a fresh start. As soon as the whites outnumbered the local Mexicans, everything changed. They took over, and then they rebelled against the Mexican central government in 1835. This was two years after her mother and brothers had died. Ximena still remembered when the mayor of San Antonio and a commander in the Texas Army, Juan N epomuceno Seguín, came to their house to convince her father to join the norteamericanos — or Texians as they liked to be called — in their armed rebellion against M exico, and to force President Santa Anna to reestablish the liberal constitution that he’d abolished and restore the states’ rights. After seven months of fighting, the Texas re volt turned into a war of secession — the Texians wanted Texas to be completely f ree of Mexican rule — forcing her father and the other Tejanos to choose between remaining in the fight against Mexico, or renewing their loyalty to the Mexican government. Her father chose to side with the Texians, not knowing he would regret doing so unti l the day he died. After the Texas Re volt, things were never the same between the Texians and the Tejanos. Anyone of Mexican origin was suddenly viewed with suspicion and even hatred. A whole town was razed, others threatened with violence, and hundreds of Tejano families had to flee their homes. Eventually, even her own family packed up and headed south. A few months later, they lost their lands to white squatters. Thus, they were forced to remain in Matamoros, where she met and married Joaquín. Her father died soon after her marriage, undone by grief that his service and loyalty to the Lone Star R epublic had been r epaid with suspicion, exile, and ruin. Her life with Joaquín had given Ximena new hope. Alongside him, she had come to believe that she could grow new roots and build a home with him for the family they’d hoped to have. But now the Yanquis were threatening to take everything away from her again . “It’s going to be worse this time, Nana. Much worse.”
“Even you cannot know what God has planned for us,” Nana Hortencia said. “But Nana — ” “Look at this beautiful gobernadora, and our salve has run out,” Nana Hortencia said and busied herself plucking the waxy dark - green leaves of a creosote bush. Exasperated with the old woman, Ximena turned toward the road, straining to see beyond the high brush fence and the groves of huisache glowing golden in the sun. No one was coming. That night, she drifted in and out of sle ep, afraid to succumb to the dreams that would surely reappear as soon as she surrendered to the darkness. As she reached for the she epskin blanket that had slipped off the bed, she saw him. He was standing by the w indow, gazing out as if it were daylight. He was admiring the beauty of their rancho, open land stretching as far as the eye could see. At hearing her stir, he turned around. There was a look of such pain on his face, perhaps of what was to come. “Ximena,” he said. Blood began to bloom on his chest, a bright crimson hibiscus flower. He pressed his hand against his heart and gasped at the sight of his bloody hand. She screamed his name, and he disappeared into the moonbeams piercing through the curtains. The dogs began to bark, and soon after, there was a pounding at the front door that jolted her awake. Fighting to catch her breath, she could hear hurried footst eps amid the continued pounding. She rushed out of her chamber and bumped into Nana Hortencia. “Is Joaquín — ?” Her grandmother placed a loving hand on her arm. “Rest easy, mi niña. He has returned to you.” Together they went into the kitchen and there was Joaquín sitting on a chair, his caporal, Ramiro, by his side, their eyes haggard from want of sle ep. Then, spotti ng the dried blood on her husband’s shirt, she ran to him and fell into his open arms. “Joaquín!” “No llores, querida,” he said, reaching to wipe her tears. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. “Where are you hurt?” She patted his chest, searching for the wound. He turned his gaze away from her. “It isn’t my blood.” “Tell me what happened,” Ximena implored, looking at the men.
“We’ve killed a Yanqui.” Joaquín looked at the orange blossom tea Nana Hortencia had placed in front of him. He banged his hand on the table and tea spilled out of the mug. “A colonel. ¡Maldita sea!” “We came upon Ramón Falcón and his guerrilleros,” Ramiro said. “Falcón told Cheno that the Yanqui was out riding alone five kilometers from his camp. He wanted us to go with him on an ambuscade. We found the Yanqui and dragged him into the chaparral.” “We were going to deliver him to General Mejía in Matamoros, make him a prisoner!” Joaquín added. “But Falcón decided to rob the colonel and killed him with a blow to the head. He took his watch, his pistols — ” “His life,” Ximena added. Joaquín looked away in shame. “Where’s his body?” Ximena asked. “Hidden in the brush,” Joaquín said. “Falcón said to leave him to the buzzards. You know how he is, as mean as a rattler in mating season.” “And that’s someone whose company you ke ep? You want to become like him?” “No, Ximena. But as long as our government does nothing, what choice do I have? Would you rather I gather some pecans and hide in the house while the Yanquis invade our land?” Ximena grabbed her husband’s hands. “Are you really willing to compromise our future with all this violence, Joaquín? To risk everything we’re working for?” He stared at the floor, and she could tell he was thinking about what she’d said. Then he looked up. “You were right, Ximena. War is coming. And I’ll be damned if I let the gringos take it all like they did to your father.” The following morning, Ximena awoke to Joaquín caressing her. She smiled and gathered him into her arms. Usually in the mornings, when she awakened, he’d be already gone, his side of the bed cold and empty. So now, as he drew himself on top of her, she clu ng to him and breathed him in, the sweet and earthy smells of chaparral mingling with tanned leather. It helped her forget the fear that was slowly suffocating her, squeezing her like a frightened jackrabbit caught in the talons of a hoot owl. As if sensing her troubled state of mind, he whispered her name in her ear, said sweet nothings to her as he touched her, stroking and coaxing her tense body to relax, to give in to pleasure, to anticipate only the sweetness of release. We will get through this. We have to.
Afterward, as she lay in his arms, basking in the warm glow of their lovemaking, he invited her for a horseback ride around the rancho. Though she hated the thought of getting out of bed, of this intimate moment coming to an end, it had been a while since they’d gone on a ride together. She roused herself from bed and got dressed to join him. Before long, she was guiding Cenizo out of the stables and into the approaching dawn, as the last stars faded and the grays gave way to violets then reds and golds. She and Joaquín watched as the sun peeked over the prairie and its first rays fell over the ir house, the huts of the ranch hands, the wells, the barn and stables, the corrals, the pigpens, the grove of pecan trees, the fruit trees and the cultivated fields, the open range, and the river beyond — then, suddenly, the entire rancho was illuminated, their land, their home. Bathed in the morning sunlight, Ximena prayed for God to bless her with more children. She prayed for the day when she and Joaquín could take their sons and daughters on a ride like this one, where the y could all listen to the raucous calls of the chachalacas nesting in the huisaches bursting in vivid yellow blooms and inhale the crisp fragrance of the dewy morning as they watched the prairie quivering with life. She imagined their children riding along on their bay ponies. She would point out to them the doe and her twin fawns grazing on the white flowers of a blackbrush, the bees burrowing in the violet flowers of a guayacán, the prairie chickens chasing fluttering grasshoppers. “You knew it was a bad idea to get in volved with the guerrillas,” Joaquín said, breaking her reverie. “I should have discussed it with you first. I’m sorry, mi amor.” She took her eyes off the turkey vultures circling in the distance and turned to look at him. “I was wrong. But, Ximena, please understand that I’m not the one putting our future at risk. That happened the minute the Yanquis arrived. You, more than anyone, know what will happen if their invasion succeeds. We will lose everything. What kind of man w ill I be, cariño, if I don’t at least try to protect what’s ours?” She thought about her dream of the battlefield, the booming of the cannons, the smoke as menacing as storm clouds. “But there’s nothing you can do to stop what’s coming, Joaquín. Neither of us can.” His face paled, and for a second, his eyes flared like hot coals. He put spurs to his horse and started off without her to the fields. She watched him go, and then, suddenly, he pulled on the reins. She caught up to him and saw something her dreams hadn’t warned her about. Among the recently planted fields, some of the foot - high corn stalks and beanstalks had been flattened or uprooted, the soil trampled by horses that had evidently ridden over it in circles. The stench of blood reached them, and she and Joaquín galloped on, past the brush fence,
following the scavenging birds to the prairie where the branded cattle had been grazing the day before. The grasses and wild rye were speckled red with blood. Some of the cattle had been slaughtered and were being feasted upon by turkey vultures and caracaras. The rest of the herd was missing, either wandered off from home or taken. “Comanches?” she asked. Joaquín shook his head. “No. Los Rinches.” “Rangers? Here on our land?” “I didn’t want to worry you. But the Texas Rangers who’ve come down with Taylor have been roaming wild, destroying property, violating women, killing innocents. The Texians have volunteered in the US Army, coming in that guise to seek out personal revenge. ” “Revenge for what? Haven’t we hurt each other enough?” Joaquín looked at her, impatient with her question. And then she realized he was right. The Alamo, Goliad, Mier... The Texians would never stop trying to avenge the deaths of their friends and relatives. “Make no mistake, mi amor,” Joaquín said, reaching for her hand. “Texas knew what it was doing when it gave up its rights to govern itself. Under the flag of the United States, the Texians are hoping to settle old scores — and get rid of us once and for all. ” “And no matter how many of us they kill, it will never be enough,” she said. April 1846 Fort Texas, Río Grande On April 11, there was a commotion across the river in Matamoros. The church bells rang over the city, and a cannon roared in salute. General Pedro de Ampudia and his troops had arrived. From the parapets of the bastioned fort, Riley caught a glimpse of th e Mexican troops and civilians lining the streets and rooftops, greeting their new commander and long - awaited reinforcements with patriotic music and cheers. The Mexican tricolor flag undulated in a warm southeast wind. Riley’s view was limited by the thic ket of trees, but he saw enough to be impressed. “He’s here,” Sullivan said, coming to stand beside him. “I reckon ’twon’t be long for the war to start. Maybe even tomorrow?” “Aye, with General Ampudia here and Cross gone, that’s true enough.”
The morning before, General Taylor’s quartermaster, Colonel Cross, had failed to return from his usual horseback ride. Taylor dispatched several patrols, but rumor had it the colonel was captured or murdered by Mexican irregulars. “And what are they bickerin’ about? This muddy river?” Sullivan asked. Riley explained to his tentmate what he knew about the dispute over the Río Grande boundary and how the Americans were looking to start a fight with Mexico so that they could take what they desired. “So that’s why they’re goin’ to war, for this crooked river and land with more rattlesnakes than people?” Sullivan shook his head. “ ’Tis not that simple. The Yanks see this land as part of their destiny. And the Mexicans see us as invaders, do they not?”